Stronger Together
by Zea T
Summary: Sometimes two mechs light the world brightly on their own, but still stronger together. An anthology of my shorter ProwlxJazz one- and two-shots, beginning with those I already have up on LiveJournal and likely with more to be added to later. Part 7: Primus Wept
1. People Watching

This "Story" is really an anthology - collating my shorter Prowl x Jazz one- and two-shots. The first half dozen or so have already appeared on my live journal account, and I want to put them up here too for archiving and in case anyone here is interested in reading them. I'll add those over the next week or two and then more as and when seems appropriate.

All chapters here are Prowl and Jazz stories, often portraying them as an intimate couple. These are works of fan fiction, based on the different incarnations of the Hasbro animated series "Transformers". Characters and situations are used without permission, and not-for-profit. They are the intellectual property of the copyright holders.

So, without further ado...

* * *

Title: **People Watching**

Verse: G1

Rating: T

Characters: Ratchet, Sparkplug, Optimus, Ironhide, Jazz, Prowl

Warnings: Implied mech/mech interfacing, and discussion of the same

Words: 2186, complete

Summary: _Sometimes what you see on the surface is a long way from giving you the whole picture._

* * *

"What are we doing here?"

The question held no real rancour. For once in his life, Ratchet was too relaxed to much care one way or the other. He was out of the Ark and that was all that mattered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd escaped the shackles of sickbay without battle, or even the grind of routine maintenance, to prey on his mind. He certainly couldn't remember when their situation had last been stable enough for Optimus Prime to give his entire officer corps the afternoon off. Admittedly that decision was probably rooted in Prime's reluctance to listen to more of Jazz and Prowl's incessant bickering, but no matter – Ratchet intended to make the most of his break regardless.

Running Sparkplug back into town was part of that. He enjoyed talking with the mature human, sharing grumbles about the youngsters they tended with more patience and care than either would willingly admit. Even so Ratchet was a little nonplussed to find himself parked in a lakeside recreation area with Sparkplug leaning back against him, sipping from a cold metal can.

The human chuckled, patting Ratchet's armoured shell. He took his time answering, gaze drifting around the park.

"People-watching. That's all, Ratchet. Just people-watching. Reminding myself what it means to be human." Sparkplug gestured with his drink, trusting Ratchet's scanners to follow the subtle movement. "See that couple other there? They argued last night. Made up this morning, ah, _vigorously_. Still a little tentative though. The kid over by the bandstand? Stood up by his friends. Or worried he might be. Probably just had a 'see you later, maybe?' kind of thing going on, and was the only one in the crowd who meant it. The guy over there playing softball with his two youngsters? Could have been me once, with Spike. Back in the day."

He glanced back up at his large companion and shook his head, a wry smile on his face.

"I don't expect you to get it, Ratch. I've just got to remind myself of this from time to time. See some faces with real expressions." His eyes swept the park again, gruff expression softening as the softball-dad scooped up his excited youngest. "We humans are more complicated than you think. You guys are always so upfront about things. After a while on the Ark, I kind of feel the need to come here. I have to remember to watch for what's going on behind the scenes. I guess you mechs are too straightforward to notice how much most people try to hide."

* * *

The memory file brought a smirk of amusement to Ratchet's lips. He sat back, sipping his mid-grade as he re-energised after their excursion, and swept the Rec Room with practiced optics.

Ratchet shook his head. His gaze settled for a while on the three Aerialbots who'd argued last night, and he wondered what lay behind their sudden coldness. Their team-mates probably knew. After all, there had to be a reason Silverbolt volunteered for extra patrols today, taking Fireflight with him. Either way, the gestalt wouldn't share its secrets often or easily.

Moving on, Ratchet watched the twins hover near Hound, quite defiantly _not_ apologetic for letting the Seekers past them in the last battle, but nonetheless ensuring the recuperating scout had everything he might need. Neither frontliner seemed to notice the irritated looks they garnered from Mirage. But then not many mechs aboard could read the frustration in the spy's cool demeanour, and fewer still would understand it.

Slouched in his chair, exercising all the insight his age and training gave him, Ratchet studied idle mechs and arrogant ones. He picked out the sober and the playful… and at least one pair who looked likely to go beyond playful sometime soon.

Straightforward? Upfront? Sparkplug was a competent mechanic and a fine man, but he sure had some weird ideas about the Autobots he'd befriended.

* * *

The thought still put a smile on his face as he wandered into the briefing room for the regular end-of-the-day officer's meeting.

"Ratchet," Optimus Prime's acknowledgement rumbled through the room. The large red and blue mech tilted his head. "It's pleasing to see you so relaxed."

"It's kind of nice to feel that way." Ratchet dropped into his regular seat, halfway along the conference table, leaning forward a little with his pale-armoured arms resting on its surface. "Thanks for today, Prime. We needed this."

"I trust you found an enjoyable way to pass the time?"

"Just been doing some 'people-watching'. Always fun."

Prime's optics went distant, his systems rumbling quietly as he looked up the human term. His optics widened a little, his blast mask failing to hide his answering smile. "All is well with the crew?"

"Better than that. I think I'm going to have to pull a couple of our younger bots in for a long chat and a code-flush."

That drew a surprised blink and then a deep, throaty chuckle from his leader. Ratchet grinned. Military unit or not, the Autobot army never had the same hang-ups regarding intimacy as their human allies. As long as emotional involvement didn't affect anyone's reactions on the battlefield, occasional interfacing was hardly a big issue. True, their isolation on Earth had led to deeper attachments forming than anyone expected. Even so it wasn't a comfort Prime would deny his soldiers.

"I won't ask who. I know I can count on you to ensure the mechs concerned understand the consequences."

Ratchet made a dismissive sound, waving one hand. "Relax, Prime. The worst a mech can get from a quick 'face is a few stray code fragments left behind, and the routine system flushes take care of that. It's not like they're going to start sharing sparks on a first date." The afternoon had put him in a mellow mood, otherwise he'd probably have stopped there. "There is precisely one couple aboard that's spark-merging. And, yes, I had a word."

Optimus looked a little taken aback, but not nearly as mortified as Hound and Mirage had been when Ratchet pulled them aside for the _second_, rather more serious, talk all young mechs got sooner or later. The two intensely-private mechs hadn't even suspected that a medic's sensors would pick up the slight changes in spark resonance that lingered for several hours after a merge – or realised why First Aid squeaked, blushed and ran the first time he was introduced to the pair of them.

Ratchet shook his head, his cheerful expression fading a little as Prime met his optics. He rubbed his forehead, massaging the base of his broad chevron.

"This new pair isn't anywhere near that serious, I'm not even sure they're interfacing yet." Ratchet paused, looking up with a nod of greeting as Ironhide stomped through the door only to hesitate on the threshold. The old mech looked startled and amused by that last comment. He dropped into his seat opposite Ratchet, listening with interest as the medic went on. "But yes, Prime, I'll talk to them. And I'll let Prowl know if I think they're getting enough of a tango on to affect their reactions in the field. I'm guessing Jazz will bite his tongue long enough to mention it to our tactician too."

He rolled his optics a little at that last. Optimus merely sighed. The senior Autobots had long since given up wondering just where the antipathy between their second and third in command came from. The odd thing was that the two officers undeniably worked well together. Well enough for their colleagues to ignore their frequent clashes and occasional sullen feuds… most of the time.

"I think mah audio sensors're still ringin' from yesterday's argument. Forget infiltratin' the Nemesis, that pair could prob'ly be heard aboard it!" Ironhide glanced up at his old friends, rubbing the side of his helm. His hand fell away and his grimace faded, a wry grin lighting up his face as he divined something of their conversation from the little he'd overheard. "Show me our CTO an' saboteur and I'll show yer two mechs that sorely need a stress-relievin' 'face or two. Might actually get their circuits unkinked."

Ratchet's lips clamped shut. His optics spoke for him. Prime's widened. Ironhide bit off an oath, shaking his head.

"Jazz, okay, I c'n kinda buy that. But Prowl too?"

The question was rhetorical. Ratchet could only be thankful that his old friends respected him too much to press for details. A good two-thirds of the crew routinely showed up for check-ups with non-native code, fragmented by interface exchanges, in their systems. No real surprise that the sociable Jazz was one of them. It had taken all Ratchet's professional discipline not to react the first time he noticed the same unmistakeable evidence in Prowl. Never mind their human friends, there wasn't a mech aboard who's guess their Second was as… Ratchet fell back on Sparkplug's word with an internal smirk… _vigorous_ as the rest of them.

Well, presumably with one mysterious exception. Ratchet had half suspected that might be Optimus Prime. Judging by the mech's stunned expression, he guessed not.

The subject dropped like a sack of scraplets. Prime sat back in his chair, engine rumbling with embarrassment as the briefing room door opened and Jazz ambled into the room. The third in command was accompanied by a steady throb of base from his speakers, his head nodding in time with the beat. He grinned broadly, the expression fading a fraction as his visor swept over the room's occupants.

"Hey, mechs," he greeted cheerfully enough, dropping into the chair at Prime's left hand. "What's up?"

Optimus knew better than to deny his discomfort entirely under his Third's sharp scrutiny.

"It is… nothing important."

Ironhide nodded agreement. Ratchet just stared, too startled to come up with any coherent answer.

"Ratch?"

Jazz gave him an odd look. Ratchet returned it in full measure.

Before Jazz entered the room, the medic had been exercised by the familiar mystery of Prowl's interface partner.

Now, his attention had been forcibly hijacked from one of their troublesome officers to the second. Reading Jazz's spark resonance with an instinctive and automatic scan, Ratchet found himself confronted by a far more pressing mystery. As far as he knew, their Third was a casual mech with casual partners and nothing more. So who on Earth was Jazz close enough to spark-merge with on a warm, summer afternoon? And why the Pit hadn't Ratchet the faintest idea?

"Ah…"

Prime rescued him without even realising it.

"Ratchet and I were just discussing the growing incidence of relationships amongst the crew."

For a moment, just the briefest of instants, a strange expression flickered behind that visor. Then Jazz's lopsided grin returned, and he turned an inquisitive look on Ratchet.

"We got a new pair? Oooh, do I hear a party callin'? Soft lights. Slow music." He swayed slightly in his seat, as if moving to the music in his processor. "Got t' give new love a chance t' blossom, right?"

"Jazz! I don't believe this is the appropriate forum for such discussions. Please turn off your music, and kindly refrain from wasting valuable meeting time."

Prowl's sharp voice cut through the relaxed atmosphere in the room like a knife. The mech stood just inside the room, doorwings raised high and tense, nodding to Wheeljack and Red Alert as they slipped in behind them.

"Just tryin' t' lighten…"

"Don't." Prowl flicked his wings in the gesture only Jazz ever drew from him – the one Ratchet had always interpreted as deep irritation… until now.

A sigh from Optimus Prime split the tension. Their leader rubbed his helm. "Can we at least _try_ to get through this meeting without arguing?"

"What d'ya think, Prowler? Can we?"

Prowl's wings flicked again. His expression was neutral, only a slight frown marring his pale face-plates.

"My name is _Prowl_, as you are well aware. Now, since I believe we are all assembled, shall we begin with the first agenda item?"

Jazz slouched into an amiable shrug, rocking his chair back on two legs. Prowl glanced in his direction, doorwings quivering for a moment, and then pointedly looked away, moving on with the meeting.

Cycling his optics, relaxing back into his chair as his medical sensors flicked from Jazz's warm spark to the pulsing resonance of Prowl's, Ratchet felt his shock fading and struggled to keep a swell of amusement from his faceplates. Distracted by the tactician's stern words, no one seemed to have noticed Prowl's doorwings were a good deal more mobile than usual, or registered Jazz fidgeting like an over-energised sparkling. Without a medic's sensors Ratchet might have been as oblivious as every other mech in the room. As oblivious as Sparkplug.

Casual, smiling, apparently without a care in the world, Jazz sat back and folded his arms across his bumper to keep them still. The broad grin he always wore after a bantering exchange with Prowl spread across his face – the one that hinted he knew the biggest secret in the world, and wasn't telling.

For the first time, but certainly not the last, Ratchet shared it.

* * *

**The End**


	2. Watched

Title: **Watched**

Verse: G1

Rating: Strong T (possibly a mild M, but probably not)

Characters: Jazz/Prowl, Ratchet

Warnings: Non-explicit but heavily implied mech/mech spark-merging.

Summary: _Being watched can be uncomfortable, but some things deserve a witness._

Author's Note: Jazz and Prowl insisted on a sequel to my earlier fic 'People Watching' (see Chapter 1) and then took it in a direction I really wasn't expecting… twice.

* * *

A spotlight pinned him, splitting the darkness of Medbay's side room. It snapped out, leaving ripples of interference across his optical sensors. They merged with an ongoing flicker, rays of light scanning the newly-arrived mech from pedes to chest height, past doorwings and to the top of his helm, before returning to ground level. On the other side of the dimly-lit room, close to the patient's med-berth, a monitor screen flared into life, its glare almost painful to night-attuned optics.

Prowl froze, his doorwings snapping high and taut as he struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

A deep chuckle from the berth broke through his shock, and he realised another glow had joined that of the screen, the brilliance of Jazz's blue visor driving back the darkness.

Emotion, too intense to put a name to, ran through him driving a shudder of pure relief ahead of it. His battle processor had insisted Jazz's injuries weren't critical. He'd even seen Ratchet's report on today's casualties, its "they'll be fine; anyone who disturbs them won't be!" carrying the medic's unique brand of combined threat and reassurance. Nevertheless, Jazz was sufficiently damaged after today's hard-fought battle for Ratchet to keep him in for observation overnight, and that fact cast a sober pall over the entire Ark. It was more than enough to terrify one mech aboard her.

Until he saw Jazz awake with his own optics, and heard the mech's rich tones, Prowl's spark had still been curled into the tight ball of fear it became on seeing his lover impact a cliff face, head-first and with horrifying force.

The air vented from his systems in a loud sigh. The monitor was ignored, relevant only for the illumination it cast over Jazz's prone form. Armour plates that Prowl had last seen dented and scoured down to base metal were now smooth and clean, waxed to a shine. Jazz's cracked visor had been replaced, and the glowing warmth of his personality shone through it, thawing the chill in Prowl's spark.

"Jazz…" Prowl vented again, forcing his turbulent emotions back under control. "I didn't mean to wake you from recharge."

"Not entirely yer fault, Prowler." Jazz raised a brow ridge, still looking amused. He beckoned and Prowl needed no more encouragement to move closer, reaching out to take the saboteur's hand. "Ya been avoidin' Ratchet again, lover?"

Prowl's doorwings flicked out and down. He ignored the shiver of stiffness and pain that accompanied the movement. Jazz didn't, visor flicking up to reveal concerned optics. Prowl's defensive response faltered in the face of their intensity.

"I'm fine! Just… just a little dermal abrasion." Rocks falling, and Jazz falling with them. Prowl hadn't hesitated for so much as a nano-click, racing across the battlefield, transforming as he went and skidding the last few metres on his knees. Falling scree peppered his wings like shrapnel; all Prowl cared about was getting there to cushion the other's landing. He hadn't even noticed his own scrapes until well after Ratchet had spirited Jazz out of his arms. He hadn't seen either mech since. "How did you know?"

The worry lingered in Jazz's optics, but his expression softened a little. He let his visor slide back down and tilted his head, throwing a wry glance at the illuminated monitor.

_SIC Prowl – post-battle health scan complete. Status: provisional pass_

Jazz smirked, reading the small print below that declaration. "Ya got yerself a minor repairs 'pointment first thing t'morrow, Prowl. Looks like Ratch is not impressed."

The smile was infectious. Prowl couldn't help echoing it, his optics on the single word at the bottom of the screen. "I inferred as much from the _'Gotcha!'_"

Jazz chuckled again, low and rich. He tugged on Prowl's hand, drawing him down to sit on the edge of the berth. His visitor didn't resist.

"Ya could just've stopped by Medbay earlier, ya know? The reports weren't goin' to change any for the sake of a few breems t' get yerself looked at."

Prowl shuddered. Jazz's hand tightened around his. He held it tight in return, his free hand reaching out to brush gently over his lover's repaired helm.

"Breems so close to you and so far away? Forced to watch while Ratchet worked on you, and not able to hold you, or even show more than a mild concern? I got away with what happened on the battlefield. No one blinked when I stepped in to aid a fellow Autobot. But that? I… I couldn't have stood it, Jazz. I'd have given everything away. I _wanted_ to give it away. To stand there in Medbay and shout out to everyone that you were mine and I didn't care if they knew it."

He leaned over as he spoke, bringing his face down to hover over Jazz's, looking straight into his visor. The saboteur arched upwards, his mouth capturing Prowl's. Prowl leaned into the kiss, pouring all his fear and suppressed passion into deepening it. Jazz's hand came up to cup the back of his helm, neither wanting to break the clinch, desperate for the reassurance and affirmation.

Jazz yielded first, his helm falling back to the berth, his vents working hard. His hand caressed Prowl's cheek, a breathy laugh escaping him.

"Steady on there, Prowler." He glanced up at the medical monitors arrayed around his berth. Several readings were elevated. "We're gonna be settin' off alarms! Might be tricky t' explain…"

His amusement faded as he caught Prowl's heated optics and saw the anger and desperation still simmering there. He pushed up on one elbow, expression serious.

"We can't, Prowl. Ya know that. We agreed."

They had. Many times. It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation by any means. Sometimes it was Prowl who had to be the voice of reason. Other times, like now, it was Jazz forced to give the unpalatable truths voice.

"If th' Decepticons find out, an' ya know they will if anyone does… Prowl, ah won't have ya be a target because o' me. Pit! We'll both o' us be targets. An' how many of our friends'll pay the price f'r it? Defendin' us, or aft'rwards if somethin' happ'ns to either one o' us an' we're not there for them?"

Prowl vented hard. His anger drowned under the torrent of words, a deeply reluctant nod torn from him. "Not admitting I love you is one thing. Not admitting I even _like_ you – that's harder."

The strange thing was that most of their arguments weren't even faked. But while both saboteur and tactician had always understood that their often-vehement differences sprang from a shared passion for the Autobot cause and the mechs under their care, the rest of the crew had quickly become convinced they loathed one another. By the time Prowl noticed their reputation amongst the crew, a deep respect for his colleague's skills and conviction was already morphing into something more. Feeding the illusion had been a convenient defence against gossip and speculation.

And that hadn't changed. If anything it was more important than ever. Prowl nodded again, tilting his helm to nuzzle his lover's hand.

"It's just hard, knowing no one knows. If I'd lost you today…"

Jazz cut him off with another kiss, this one softer, a chaste brush of lip-plates.

"Ya didn't."

"Don't you dare do this to me again, Jazz."

"Ah'd swear it if ah could, Prowler. But ah can't, any more than ya could in ma place." Jazz vented a sigh, sinking back down on his berth. His hand stroked Prowl's helm, his expression sorrowful. "Another day, another battle, and you'll send me into the field, and I'll go in a spark-beat."

"One of these days I'll order you to your death." Prowl's optics slid aside, his body slumping slightly so their helms touched, brow-ridge to brow-ridge. "If that's the best call. The decision that could save lives."

Jazz vented a sigh, cycling down his optics for several seconds, before rebooting them. He met the tactician's gaze, optics and visor intimately close. "Promise me that, Prowl. Promise me."

Prowl's smile was bittersweet, the love and sorrow in it spark-breaking as he reaffirmed the oath they'd made to one another long before. "Even if it kills me too. Even if no one will ever know why I fade away."

Jazz sighed, breaking the tension.

"If it makes ya feel any better, ah think there's already someone in the know."

Prowl's blank incomprehension was reflected on his faceplates and in the low, tired slump of his doorwings. Jazz shook his head, amusement and concern warring in his expression.

"Ratchet set a trap for ya, Prowler."

"I'm aware of that…"

"He set a trap for ya… _beside ma med-berth_."

Doorwings jerked upright. The movement cast dancing shadows in the light of the medical displays, and brought a hiss of pain on the heels of Prowl's shocked gasp.

Jazz pulled him down lower, scooting to one side to make room on the berth, even as one hand snaked up to massage his door joint. "Ah told ya he'd been givin' us funny looks."

Even in the depths of night, Medbay's side room was potentially far from private. Prowl knew he should back off – insist on waiting – but the tactician resisted Jazz's silent demand for no more than the briefest of moments. He sank down to lie beside Jazz, his arm slipping around white-plated shoulders, the warmth of his lover pressed against his side on the narrow berth. Even as they snuggled together though, Prowl's processor was working overtime, surprise and alarm filling him. "But… but how could he possibly know?"

"Don't let it get yer circuits in a twist, Prowler." Jazz shook his head. "Ratchet's always been good at spotting what's going on in the crew. How many times have ya counted on him to let ya know who needs an eye kept on them out in the field?"

Just a few moments before Prowl had been lamenting the secrecy of their lives. Now he found a frown of discontent forming on his face.

"I must confess it's… unsettling to be the subject of scrutiny."

"Rather than th' scrutiniser?" Jazz hummed, the thoughtful sound not exactly in disagreement. There was silence for a few moments, neither officer entirely happy with the discovery that their private lives were less private than they thought.

Prowl vented hard. "Ratchet can keep a secret."

"Prob'ly keeps more than anyone on th' Ark – the two o' us excepted." Jazz shifted, his head resting on Prowl's shoulder. The gentle massage on his back armour intensified, becoming a caress under Jazz's skilled finger-servos. "Ya know, ah've been thinkin'. Ah think ah've pinned when Ratchet figured us out."

"When?" Prowl's vents hitched. He heard the breathiness in his own voice. Jazz's hands were growing more insistent. Usually Prowl would have stopped them by now, insisting on probity in so insecure a place. After the stresses of the day, there was no part of him prepared to accept any more separation from Jazz than necessary.

"Oh." A note of mischief entered Jazz's voice, and his hands wandered a little further. "Remember that afternoon Optimus gave us off? 'bout three orns ago?"

Prowl's vents stuttered, his fans kicking into life. Their first time. Or at least the first time that really mattered. He reacted without thinking, twisting a little to put himself and Jazz chest to chest as Jazz's skilled servos played with his transformation seams.

The movement put a bank of medical monitors in his eye-line. At least half of Jazz's vitals were spiking, and, despite himself, the tactician made just one effort.

"Jazz, you're still under observation."

Jazz purred, snuggling closer. His engine vibrated through Prowl's frame, his visor burning brightly as it met Prowl's optics.

"Then let's give ol' Ratch a show worth watchin'."

* * *

Neither of them noticed when the medical monitors were switched off by remote control.

Exhausted and curled into one another's arms, both were in deep recharge when Ratchet stomped into the room the following morning, only to stop on the threshold shaking his head at the pair of them. Venting a sigh, the medic set to work.

It was several minutes before Ratchet dropped his wrench on the workbench with a deliberate clatter. Prowl blinked awake, jerking upright and close to overbalancing as he found himself perched precariously on the edge of the narrow berth. Two pairs of hands reached out to steady him. Jazz, sprawled out beside him, looked guilty and more than a little amused. Ratchet, looming over them both, appeared far less impressed.

He waited until Prowl was stable before stepping back. The tactician flexed his doorwings, pleased to discover the joints eased and his dermal plating regenerated while he recharged. He looked up to thank Ratchet, and the words died on his lips. Reason dictated that their Chief Medical Officer would hardly undo his good work so soon. The expression on the medic's face would make anyone doubt that logic.

"Ah…"

Jazz sat up beside him, squirming like a youngling caught red-handed. Last night's 'good idea' seemed a long time past. Even so, he made a valiant attempt at a cocky grin. "Mornin', Ratch. How was it for ya?"

For a long moment, time itself seemed to still its vents. Then Ratchet's lips quirked, just the once, but neither saboteur nor tactician missed it. The tension in the air fizzled away. Ratchet's scowl fell on two sets of unrepentant optics, both Jazz and Prowl schooling their faceplates into a contrite look belied by their slight smiles and the post-merge relaxation in their postures.

The medic rolled his optics towards the ceiling, venting a sigh.

"Why do I even bother?"

"Now, Ratch. We know ya love us really."

Ratchet vented again, shaking his head in rueful resignation.

"I've been putting this conversation off because I thought you were both responsible adults. Now I'm having my doubts." He picked up the wrench he'd dropped, toying with it in a manner that drew both pairs of optics to it and had Prowl's doorwings held high and wary. "So, listen up. I'm going to say this once – just once! Right: do you two slaggers know how sparklings are made?"

Prowl felt Jazz stirring beside him. He didn't need to feel the amusement trickling across their residual resonance to know that letting Jazz answer first was a very, very bad idea.

"We are both aware of the procedure."

Jazz pouted. "Spoilsport."

Ratchet's grip on his wrench shifted to something just a little more assertive, and Jazz held his hands up in front of him. "Whoa! Yes, Ratch, we know where baby bots come from!"

It was hard to tell who was more relieved to avoid the detailed explanation – Prowl or Ratchet himself.

"Need any help avoiding it?"

Prowl's doorwings gave an embarrassed quiver, his optics focussed anywhere but on the medic. Jazz just snickered. "S'okay Ratch. We're on top of it."

This time Ratchet was the one to shudder.

"Believe me, the last thing I want is a mental image of either of you 'on top' of anything!" The older mech vented a tired sigh. He dropped onto the chair beside the berth, rubbing the base of his broad chevron. "You know you're making this harder on yourselves. This isn't just interfacing. Every time you get… ah… together, you're increasing the spark resonance between you – making your relationship deeper. Keep it up long enough and bonding won't be a choice. It'll become an inevitability."

Prowl felt Jazz's hand slip into his. He held it tightly, feeling no shame when he saw Ratchet's optics on their entwined servos. His doorwings spread a little wider, emphasising his conviction.

"We know. We want this."

"Prowl, Jazz, there's another thing." When Ratchet looked up this time his expression held no trace of humour. "We're soldiers, all of us. We're fighting a war, and as good as you are, as good as I am, sometimes it's just not enough."

"We know," Jazz echoed his lover, an unaccustomed sombre tone in his voice. He raised a hand to his visor, tapping it more firmly into place before running the hand back over his helm. "Primus! Ya think we don't know that? There's not a pair on this ship that doesn't know one o' them won't be comin' back t' the Ark, sooner or later."

Prowl shuddered, and Jazz leaned towards him, helm nuzzling his lover's doorwings in reassurance as he went on.

"Even if we were deludin' ahselves, yest'day would've been some wake up call, don't'cha think?"

Prowl swallowed down the memory. He met Ratchet's optics without flinching. "It has not changed our resolve. We are aware of the risks – and of the temptations. We will not let this affect us in our duties."

"But we're not givin' it up, either," Jazz finished for him.

It was clear Ratchet expected no other answer, but he shook his head as if he'd hoped for one nonetheless.

"And all those times you've seen a mech get distracted by their lover on the battlefield? All the times you've planned for them, covered them, watched out for them? Who's going to be watching for you?"

"We've got ya." Jazz gave the medic a genuine smile. "And Pit if it don't feel good t' know there's someone who knows. Someone t' keep an eye on Prowler if ah have t' leave him. But as long as ah'm here… We'll watch each other, Ratch. Just like always." He shifted on the berth, turning slightly to face the mech who'd stolen his spark. His smile faded, his visor retracting. "Ah'll always be there to watch ya back, Prowler. Come rain or shine. In good times an' bad."

Prowl met his lover's optics, mirroring their sincerity. "I'll always be there to catch you when you fall – in battle or out of it."

"Ah'll do what I have t' an' ah'll come back to ya. Ah'll tell ya when you're wrong an' listen when ya tell meh the same, an' ah'll know yer making meh better with each passin' orn."

"I'll take your criticisms and add them to my own, learning all the time. I'll never go easy on you or on myself. I'll never stop loving you, or respecting you."

"Ah'll argue with ya every day, love ya every night, and follow ya orders without hesitatin'."

"I'll send you into the flames, and trust you to carry my everything with you, and to return with it."

"Love ya, Prowl."

"With all my spark, Jazz."

They'd never intended this. Ratchet certainly hadn't expected it. The silence between them lingered, the medic studying the two officers who sat before him as proud lovers and would walk from this room as mere sparring partners, never revealing the passion they shared.

It was a long moment before Ratchet nodded, witnessing and sealing the vows they'd made. His optics carried a promise of his own. He'd hold their secret as close as they did, until the day they could again give it voice – before their friends… or before Primus, whichever came first.

The moment broke. Ratchet shook his head, reaching again for the wrench he'd laid down by his side.

"All right, that's enough of that! Jazz, what little processor you had seems to have survived getting cosy with the wall, even if I'm less sure it survived getting cozy with Prowl, so what are you doing cluttering my Medbay? Get out – the pair of you! And if I ever catch you getting… vigorous in my domain again…"

He let the threat tail off. Jazz didn't wait for anything further, scooting off the berth and darting through the door into Medbay proper with a peal of laughter. Prowl took his time in following, pausing to hitch his doorwings a little higher, and paste a not-entirely-false frown of disapproval over his faint smile.

"And Prowl…" Ratchet's voice stopped him in the doorway. He hesitated, looking over one shoulder to meet the old medic's concerned, compassionate optics. "I'm still watching you…"

Prowl didn't react, not a crack in the SIC's usual impassive mask as he turned back. His wings flicked, his optics tracking Jazz to the door. The saboteur bounced on his repaired pedes, waiting for Sideswipe to pass by Medbay and then sneaking out into the corridor behind him for the Pit of it.

Prowl allowed a flicker of his smile to return as both he and Ratchet heard Sideswipe's loud yelp and colourful profanity, mingled with Jazz's cry of 'Congratulate meh! Ah'm free at last!'. He glanced back as Ratchet followed him into Medbay. "We're counting on it," he said softly, before folding his arms across his chest, raising his voice and striding out into the corridor.

"Jazz! Such behaviour is unbecoming of an officer. Now, since Ratchet has cleared you for duty, I'll have to ask you to accompany me to my office – I still need to debrief you after the battle yesterday."

Sideswipe threw Jazz a commiserating look, rolling his eyes in Prowl's direction. Jazz just gave an airy wave of one hand, acknowledging the sympathy and the order at the same time.

"I'll have to catch ya later, Sides. Okay, Prowler. Just lead the way. " He cast a cocky grin in Prowl's direction, his visor flickering in a swift wink that Sideswipe missed entirely. "I'm all yers."

* * *

**The End**


	3. Caught in the Act

_And now for something completely different..._

* * *

Title: **Caught in the Act**

Verse: G1

Rating: T

Characters: Prowl, Jazz (friendship)

Warnings: Discussions of overload

Written for the LiveJournal ProwlxJazz community's 2011 Anniversary challenge, Week 1, Prompts #4 & #5 – 'Caught in the Act'/'I never knew you liked to do that'

Summary: _Prowl is forced into an awkward explanation; Jazz is amused._

* * *

Wh…what…? Where…?

Awareness returned to Prowl in a rush of boot-up messages and sensor feedback. He shuddered, dialling down the input from his sensory wings in an attempt to make sense of the chaos. He circuits were fizzing, their activity a sharp contrast to the deep weariness that permeated his frame. Strange. This wasn't a normal crash then. Those tended to feel remarkably peaceful, his processor blocking out his external systems – not stimulating them. This felt like…

No. The tactician's still shaky processor clamped down on the thought. There was simply no way this could be what it felt like.

First rush of reboot confusion passed. Prowl returned his attention to the information streaming from his sensors, only realising as he did so that he was in his alt-mode. Most mechs would have transformed in his situation, preferring their optics to more limited alt-mode sensors. Most mechs didn't have the inbuilt advantages of a Praxian frame.

Tense, more than a little alarmed by his unexplained reboot, Prowl ran a test cycle through his weaponry and focused on his door-wings, their output painting a picture as clear as any his optics could provide.

Oh.

Slumping on his wheels, the Second in Command of the Autobot Armed Forces let the power drain from his weapons subsystems. Prowl surveyed the high-fenced and night-darkened concrete lot with a sense of bemusement that faded into horror and guilt as memory returned. Dirt, streaked with the russet stain of iron oxides, ground beneath his tyres as he edged a few inches forward. He rocked to a halt, unsurprised to find a metal clamp around his left rear, impeding his motion. He didn't fight it. Instead, he let his engine drop to a low idle, hunkered down amidst the wrecks rusting quietly in the night.

Looking on the bright side, he knew where he was now and had a pretty good idea of why.

On the other servo… Jazz was never going to let him live this down.

* * *

"So…?"

Prowl knew Jazz could move quietly. His tactical processors had assigned an eighty-percent probability to his fellow Autobot arriving to investigate before dawn (_twenty percent that his rescuer would be Ratchet_, Prowl's tactical processor supplied). Given his situation, he'd fully expected the saboteur to make a wary approach, in case Prowl was the bait for some kind of trap. Even so, the drawled question earned a startled bounce on his wheels from the tactician.

He'd swear that the road outside the security fence had been empty just moments before. The racing Porsche now idling with two wheels on the sidewalk was a new feature. Jazz dipped his headlights, shifting on his wheels as his sensors swept the impound lot, before turning his attention back to the Autobot tactician parked quietly in one corner of the yard. His entire form radiated a bemused confusion that mirrored Prowl's own emotions on waking.

"Good evening, Jazz."

"No problem with yer vocalisor then?" Jazz vented a sigh and rocked on his tyres, casting a moving shadow in the streetlights. His relief at hearing his friend's resigned tone was obvious. "Hafta say I was wonderin'. Cause, ya see, I know there's gotta be a reason ya've not talked yer way outta there, but Pit if I know what it is. Yer goin' to hafta help me out here."

Prowl vented a sharp sigh. He rolled back the full six inches the parking boot allowed and then forward again, too tired to hide his frustration and embarrassment. As much as he was tempted to ignore Jazz and tune the saboteur out completely, his chances of getting out of here with his dignity intact (_twenty-two percent and falling_, his tactical processor interjected helpfully) relied heavily on getting out of here in the first place.

"Regulations are clear that detained Autobots are to avoid confrontation and await legal release. Jazz, if you'd be so kind – "

"Uh-huh. Guess ya forgot the 'Give the police your designation and the Ark's callin' code' part of that reg."

Prowl hadn't so much forgotten as been offline until well after the humans locked the impound lot for the night. He strongly suspected that his fellow officer would find that fact less than reassuring.

"What ya do on yer day off is yer own affair, Prowler, but ya got the local enforcers kinda worried." From Jazz's tone, Prowl guessed they weren't alone. "Took them half th' night t' figure out they had a 'bot clamped. Called up t' tell us ya hadn't so much as twitched since they towed ya."

"Indeed?"

"And that was _after_ they'd had folks out 'till dusk searching th' cliffs an' rocks below for whoever'd dumped a cop car with its doors wide open on a cliff-top."

"Is that so? Jazz, I would be extremely grateful if – "

"So want t' tell me why I had t' talk Ratch out of coming out here?"

"I…"

"He said something 'bout reformatting th' three of ya inta pleasure-bots."

Prowl couldn't help flinching. He rolled back fractionally, the steel frame of the parking boot clattering against the dusty concrete. The noise echoed, slowly fading into the stillness of the night. It was some hours after local midnight, according to Prowl's chronometer. The streets were still and quiet, no sound to blur the sharp reverberations. Jazz let them die away, watching the mortified Datsun huddle on his tyres, before giving a thoughtful hum.

The unmistakeable sound of transformation drifted through the dark streets. A single step over the fence, and Jazz folded back down, bumper to bumper with Prowl. The tactician took a moment to appreciate his friend's discretion. While the chances of anyone passing at this time of night were slim, the last thing he needed was human media getting wind of his presence here.

Then his already-sensitised systems reminded him that there was a gently-vibrating Porsche – still warm from the run out of the Ark – pressed up against his bumper, and it took everything he had to suppress a far-too-obvious shudder. Jazz was already concerned, his worry growing palpably as he took in the tense brush of Prowl's energy field and the tactician's silence.

"Maybe I should've let Ratch come…"

"No!" It emerged as more of a yelp than Prowl intended. "Jazz, it's nothing, really."

"Nothing." If Jazz had been in root-mode he'd have tilted his head, adjusting his visor. Even in his vehicle form, his flat tone spoke volumes for his scepticism. His voice hardened. "A 'nothing' that has ya passed out on a cliff-top, at th' mercy of human tow-trucks, not t' mention any passin' con? Don't give me that, Prowler."

"I'm perfectly well, I assure you. If you could just – "

"This have somethin' t' do with what landed Smokescreen in medbay last orn?"

Prowl flinched. His tactical processor had predicted the question with a high degree of certainty. It had yet to come up with a good answer.

"Smokescreen was speeding, and collided with an electricity pylon." ...And Prowl was still impressed that his subordinate had the presence of mind to carry that last bit off, even if he was quietly fuming about the reasons for it.

"Uh-huh." Jazz sounded unconvinced. "And Blue, the day before yesterday?"

"Bluestreak… suffered a systems malfunction while racing Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

"The one that had his doors popping open at eighty miles an hour, or the one that had him passing out in a shower of sparks and tumbling off the road twenty seconds later? Never heard the twins scream fer help like that before, and I'm not keen t' hear it again." Jazz snorted, his energy field spiking with unhappy concern. "I'm head of Ops, not an idiot, Prowl. There's somethin' goin' on with you three." Five long seconds of silence was all the response Jazz got (_ninety-four percent certain he'd press further_, Prowl's tactical algorithms reported, _almost ninety-nine percent that Prowl would give in to the questioning_). "It's some kind of alt-mode incompatibility, isn't it? Ya should've said something if the whole Datsun thing was hurtin' ya. Leavin' it this long'll just be makin' it worse. Slag it, Prowler! Why'd ya even come off base if yer sick?"

"I am perfectly healthy."

"Healthy mechs don't pass out on cliff tops."

"We should really head back to the Ark – "

"We ain't goin' nowhere 'till I have some answers."

Prowl vented a sigh. He didn't need a tactical report to realise Jazz wasn't going to let this go. The mech's stubborn tone told him all he needed to know.

Truthfully, he couldn't blame his companion. Smokescreen had managed to use the human's power grid as cover and the tell-tale electric arcs had long since faded from Prowl's frame, although he had no doubt Ratchet would read them in his system files before the night was through, but Bluestreak's incident had worried everyone.

"Jazz…. There are circumstances in which even a healthy mech finds it difficult to maintain consciousness."

"Name one!"

It had been a long day, and even with the arcing gone, Prowl's systems were still charged well above their norm. Jazz's firm, almost aggressive nudge against his bumper was the last straw. The embarrassment and irritation in Prowl's field were washed away in a flood of something far stronger.

Jazz's engine and Prowl's roared in synchrony, two sets of cooling fans clicking into action as the excess charge dissipated through two overheated energy fields rather than just one. Jazz rolled back with a startled oath, putting space between them in a hurry.

"Ah… Prowl…?"

For the first time since his arrival, Jazz's voice was tentative and a little nervous. Whatever answer he'd expected to his challenge, it hadn't been that. Prowl growled quietly, not about to apologise despite the guilt that permeated his field.

"Answer me a question, Jazz. Why is it that you, and the twins, Tracks, Mirage – even Wheeljack – why do you all have race-capable alt-modes? What is it that makes speed so attractive to you here, when none of you were racers on Cybertron?"

Jazz was still jumpy, his fans yet to settle. Given his quite unexpected brush with Prowl's overcharged field, the tactician wouldn't have blamed him for putting the fence back between between them. To his credit though, the saboteur just rocked on his wheels, headlights dimming as he gave the question the serious consideration Prowl asked for.

"Never really thought 'bout it. It's just more of a thrill than I remember Cybertron ever bein'."

"Yes, Jazz. But _why_?" Prowl couldn't keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping beyond hope that he was right in his guess.

"I guess… Man, this is embarrasin'… Guess it's the feel of it. Fighting the wind, feeling it stream over our armour, curlin' round the panels. Sort of… strokin' over them. Nothin' like it back home."

Now Jazz was the one squirming on his wheels. Prowl felt a chuckle rise inside him and let it shake his frame, much to his friend's irritation. He modulated his field, letting Jazz see his apology while he was still struggling to filter the laughter out his vocalisor.

"I cannot help but wonder what our human friends would think, if they knew so many of us find their thick atmosphere so… exciting."

"Excitin's overstatin' in a bit, don'tcha think?" Jazz grumbled, dipping his headlights and rocking on his suspension. "Just sayin' it feels kinda nice, that's all."

"And that's with your primary sensors buried deep in your alt mode." Prowl kept his tone even. Even so, the observation dropped into a silence made heavy by sudden realisation. "Jazz, you're head of Special Ops, as you so forcefully reminded me just a few klicks ago. You're a better observer than almost any other Autobot on Earth. Don't tell me you've never noticed Bluestreak and me running with substantially heated systems when we get to a battlefield."

"Ratch said it was a limitation o' the Datsun design. I thought yer engines just couldn't take the speeds."

"It's not our engines that have the problem." Prowl opened and closed his front doors in emphasis. It was a Praxian quirk to place so many of their primary sensors on an external panel, trading vulnerability for sensitivity. In the thin air of Cybertron, it had never presented a problem. With the speed-driven winds of Earth caressing their sensitive plating…

"Man…" Jazz's whisper faded into a splutter.

"Jazz?" Prowl edged forward, concerned by the odd shudder that ran through his companion. He hissed in frustration as the human device around his tyre arrested the motion.

"Man, oh man, Prowler…" Jazz shuddered again, but this time the splutter dissolved into laughter that bubbled from the depths of his frame with ever-increasing force. "Yer… yer tellin' me that racing doesn't just get ya hot, it get's ya _hot_."

Prowl vented a heavy sigh. Jazz's laughter was about the best response he'd dare hope for (_eight percent probability of disgust, twelve percent denial, seventeen percent over-protective concern… almost forty percent of his predictions involved some manifestation of Jazz's always unpredictable but fierce temper_). He straightened on his wheels nonetheless, putting as much dignity into his posture as he could muster as he waited for his companion to regain coherence.

Several minutes later, he was still scowling to himself, patience wearing thin as he watched the giggling Porsche bounce on his wheels. "It's not _that_ funny."

"Prowler… the twins…"

"The twins?"

"Their faces… if they knew what yer thinkin' each time ya hafta catch them up."

The image surprised a laugh out of Prowl despite himself. The expression of horror on Sunstreaker's face was all too easy to imagine. Almost as easy to picture as Prowl's own horrified face if the twins ever learned the source of his frustration after every long chase.

Prowl rocked into silence, too preoccupied to laugh for long. Not for the first time, he questioned the wisdom of telling Jazz any of this. The simple truth of it though was that the Porsche would've wormed the explanation out of him sooner or later. Prowl calculated little chance (_less than three percent_, according to his tactical processor) that Jazz would let him out of this lot with anything less than the full story. Tired as he was, he couldn't fight the inevitable. Even if that meant waiting out his companion's fit of hilarity.

It was several minutes before Jazz subsided, his good humour gradually fading back into concern.

"So... so… so what's changed? An' don't tell me it's nothin'. We've been on Earth two years, Prowler, and suddenly the three of you are playin' dodge-wrench with Ratch?"

There was nothing for it.

"Smokescreen developed a theory…"

"Now this I gotta hear!"

"… a theory that if the armoured face of our doorwings was sensitive to wind speed, the softer inner face…"

"Would be more than just sensitive? The way he was cracklin' when Ratch hauled him in, I'm guessin' he was right."

Prowl could only be grateful that his alt-mode concealed his grimace. "Spectacularly so, if Smokescreen's account of the incident is to be believed."

"An' Blue reckoned he had t' give it a try?"

"A decision that I have since discussed with him. At length."

"Ouch." Jazz's grin was audible in his voice. "Didn't stop ya landin' up here, I see."

"Given the circumstances, I thought a controlled test with open doors in a suitably windy location…"

"So, ya gonna tell me what happened, Prowler, or leave me guessing?"

Laughter had drained the tension from Jazz's frame. The saboteur closed the gap between them, nudging bumpers companionably. Prowl rocked stiffly on his wheels, wishing he could back up himself as embarrassment returned.

"The effect was rather stronger and more… rapid… than I anticipated."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Their energy fields once again overlapping, Prowl could feel his companion's struggle for composure. It was a losing battle.

"It blew ya processor so fast ya got caught in the act?"

Prowl sank on his wheels as Jazz sniggered.

"It's been a long day and a longer night, Jazz. If you'd be kind enough to contact the appropriate authorities and arrange my release...?"

This time Jazz's chuckle was gentler. The Porsche hummed, soft and low, and Prowl felt the subsonics ripple through his doorwings a moment before the parking boot clicked open beneath his tyre.

"Jazz, shouldn't you at least call…?"

Jazz transformed, his visor glinting in the streetlights. "All done an' dusted 'fore I got here, Prowler."

"You mean," Prowl triggered his own transformation, doorwings rising high above his head, "that I could have walked out of here without…?"

"Givin' me mah biggest laugh of the last vorn?" Jazz grinned, reaching out to steady Prowl as the Praxian stepped over the security fence behind him. "Look at it as practice fer tellin' Ratch the whole sordid story."

Prowl's groan faded into the music of dancing gears as he folded back into his alt-mode, wondering if he'd ever be able to show his face again. Not that he doubted Jazz's discretion. There was a less than five percent chance his friend would betray his secret. But there was still Ratchet to face, and the rest of the night-shift ready to spread the inevitable gossip. Bluestreak and Smokescreen at least would make a reasonable guess as to the events of the day (_seventy-eight percent probability_, his tactical processor confirmed) and what Bluestreak knew…

He was still contemplating his chances as the Porsche in front of him purred into life. The jolt that followed startled him out of his analysis. A tug on his bumper, and his wheels rotated without his conscious volition.

"Jazz! Your magnets?"

"Ratch said I should give ya a tow, if I felt ya needed it."

"I am quite capable – !"

"Of sittin' down tomorrow to put 'Doors will be closed whilst in motion' in the regs? Yup."

"Jazz…" Prowl didn't try to break the magnetic tow. He did, however, activate his blinkers as they approached the highway, less sanguine than Jazz about the lack of traffic in this dead of night.

"So ya'd best make the most of it while ya can. It's not like a second overload is gonna be any harder t' explain t' Ratch than th' first."

"Jazz!"

The rev of Jazz's engine was loud in the night, its purr a counterpoint to the rattle of gravel under their tyres as they picked up speed. There's was something soothing about the steady vibration. It was tempting to settle back into Jazz's strong grip… too tempting to focus on the growing breeze across his sensor panels.

"Relax, Prowl. I'll take care of ya. Ya can let go."

"And _you_ won't?"

Prowl's voice came out shy, a thread of eagerness escaping his weakening control. Jazz chuckled again, low and rich and full of understanding.

"Never in a thousand years, Prowler. I've got ya."

There was a promise in those words – one Prowl would need to think about. For now though… Prowl popped his locks with an audible click. Forcing the doorwings open against the headwind took an effort…

And despite his embarrassment, despite the risk and the heady feeling of placing his fate so completely in Jazz's servos (_nine-hundred and eighty-three percent certainty his trust was justified_, came the report from his rapidly degenerating tactical processor)… despite all that…

It was worth it.

* * *

**The End**


	4. New Perspective

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed - I very much look forward to hearing from readers, whether the reviews are positive or constructive criticism that might improve my work! Now, time for a detour into the Bay-verse... _

* * *

Title: **New Perspective**

Verse: movie-verse

Rating: T

Warnings: angsty; set sometime after the 2007 movie, so spoilers for the Mission City battle at the end of the first film, but nothing thereafter.

Originally written for the ProwlxJazz community's 2011 Anniversary Challenge, week 1, prompt #12 – 'This place feels so unfamiliar and yet I know it well'

Summary: _Some things have to be seen with our own optics before we can accept their reality._

* * *

Steel poles were cold beneath his hands, smooth and slick with condensation. Wooden footboards creaked, protesting his unexpected weight. He moved quickly but carefully, scaling the scaffolding unseen by human and electronic eyes alike. Mere seconds after his transformation, he was hauling himself over the building's parapet with a single smooth movement.

The wind caught his angular door-wings, and he flared them to steady himself. It was quiet here, between the vents, chimneys and scattered skylights. There was no one to watch, no reason to hurry. He allowed himself a moment to rest, letting his sensors adjust to the chill breeze at this elevation before rising from his crouch. Even then he was cautious, choosing where he stepped - not only to place his weight above sturdy roof joists, but also to avoid observation from the ground.

Humans thronged the streets below, irregardless of the late hour. From time to time one would glance up for a few seconds before going on, the habit of watching the skies so deeply engrained they didn't notice themselves doing it. They watched the streets here too, pedestrianising ever-larger zones of the city centre. It had been hard to get this close, harder still to do so without leaving a trail through human data-space. More surveillance cameras had been installed in this town than in any other American city, according to some reports. There were those who called the people of Mission City paranoid. After the death and destruction of one fateful day they had reason to be.

Prowl flinched, unprepared for the rush of memory that thought brought with it. Tremors of reaction flowed through him, just as they had the orn he found himself doubled up on a distant world, emotions too strong for his bondmate to block searing through him.

_Anger. Horror. Fear._

Oh yes, there'd been fear, but also the courage to face it. Dimming his golden optics, Prowl lived again through his mate's determination. There'd been no running, no surrender, and only a single regret.

He was on his hands and knees when the world returned to full focus. For a long while, he simply stared at the litter under his clawed finger-servos, unable to bring himself to face the wider world. The streets below had long since been swept clean of that day's debris, even if it lingered in the psyche of human and Autobot alike. Burned out vehicles had been towed, buildings repaired where possible… rebuilt where necessary. This tower block was the last in the central district to remain clad in scaffolding, and even that would soon be gone.

Perhaps, before the builders left, they would sweep the rooftops too. For now though, the layer of fine debris ground under Prowl's weight, concrete dust finding its way past angular plating and into the joints of his hands and knees. Standing, he rubbed it between thumb and finger-servos, feeling the sting of spent cordite and the bite of powdered glass abrading his armour.

Human resilience was a fine thing. The more he saw of it, the more he understood what Prime recognised in these fragile organics from the start. Prowl truly admired a people who saw destruction and found the strength not to meet it with more of the same, but to rebuild stronger and better than before.

He'd stopped believing his own people capable of the same long eons before.

Even so, Prowl's spark ached with the realisation that if he'd come a solar orbit, or just a few deca-orns, later even this last evidence of the battle would have been swept into the past.

"Ya shouldn't have come here, love."

The melodic voice came from close behind him, pitched low so as not to carry in the still night air.

"Ya know how they worry."

Prowl didn't turn. He let the dust trickle between his claws and leaned forward on the building's parapet, scanning the streets below.

"I know," he acknowledged softly. "I had to come. I had to _see_…"

Golden optics played over the broad chasm between buildings and the road far beneath him. Its pavement was patchy, strips of fresh-laid concrete giving it a dappled pattern that overlapping pools of light from the streetlamps couldn't conceal.

_Blackout thundered out of the sky, gouging a deep trench in the road surface as he came in to land. Humans scattered beneath him, the Autobots powerless to shield them from the debris flying in every direction._

His gaze rose to the buildings, their brickwork still pockmarked with bullet holes. Wide areas had been rebuilt entirely, the new brick never a perfect match for the old. Sometimes, the humans hadn't even tried, making a statement in the stark contrast between old and new.

_The human military was helping – to the small degree they could. Their most powerful hand weapons were a mere irritant to Decepticon and Autobot alike. They kept trying nonetheless, hoping that a lucky shot might nick a fuel line, or just provide a distraction at some crucial moment._

For a few moments Prowl studied a small patch of open ground, a shady spot between two concrete cliffs. Bracketed by the road in front and cross-braced walls rising three storeys to either side, it was the legacy of destruction, of a single building in the row too damaged to salvage.

_Brawl, crashing through walls and windows and humans alike. He had to be stopped. Ironhide's cannons were doing nothing, and all Jazz's strength could do little but nudge the Decepticon's aim. They tried nonetheless. These humans were innocent of the war the All-Spark had brought to their world._

Focusing his optics back on the present with a click and whirr, Prowl was startled to realise the concrete foundation had been covered in turf and gravel. A coffee-stall stood to one side, and benches surrounded it, wooden planters bracketing them and a slender-leaved sapling planted in the centre of the new space. A city garden. Life in the shadow of death.

A smile played across Prowl's thin lip-plates at the sight. He took courage from it and from the presence waiting patiently behind him. Even so, a thin keen escaped him as he raised his golden optics to the rooftop he'd been avoiding, his vision blurring with a memory far more vivid than those other, half-seen glimpses of battle.

_Flung to the rooftop, systems damaged and shaken by the sudden flight. His visor shorted in a shower of static as his helm impacted with a force he was helpless to avoid. The human-built roof trembled below him and then creaked ominously, as pained by the weight pressing down on Jazz's chest as the mech himself._

"I had to…" Prowl's vents were irregular, keening sobs blending with the words from his vocalisor. "I had to see with my own optics, not yours."

Slender arms eased around Prowl's waist. Clawed fingers captured hands that he only now realised were rubbing his mid-section in remembered pain, entwining with their servos. He felt his mate's helm rest between his shoulder blades. Vented air caressed his door-wings, heated by the warmth of Jazz's spark.

Helm tilted back, Prowl swayed in his mate's embrace. A light drizzle was falling now, water droplets forming and rolling down his faceplates. His doorwings twitched and fluttered, caught between the warmth they craved and the cold, sharp winds of Earth. Debris crunched beneath his feet, and all around him – in the noise that rose from the streets, the diffuse glow that lit the city sky, and the constant stream of electromagnetic signals assaulting him – he felt the vibrant life-beat of Mission City and the humans that inhabited it. None of that had made it through the distance-strained bond. Only the snapshot images branded into his processor, and the intense, burning pain.

"This place feels so unfamiliar." He whispered the words, pulling Jazz's arms a little tighter around him. He couldn't stop his optics picking out scar after scar on the city's skin, analysing the flow of battle as he slotted each memory in its place. Always his gaze was drawn back to that same, anonymous rooftop. "And yet I know it so well."

Jazz keened quietly behind him, that one regret as clear in the bond now as it was the first time Prowl felt it – that Prowl had lived through this with him, and would bear that memory until the Well of Sparks welcomed him home.

"Ya can't live in th' past, Prowler."

"I can't forget it either."

"Never forget, love. Only accept an' learn an' go on t' somethin' new."

Jazz was drawing back from him now. Servos slipped free from Prowl's; his mate's comforting weight no longer pressed against the taller mech's back. The night's chill crept in, forcing the warmth to retreat until it was no more than a feeble glow around Prowl's spark. He kept his optics on the city, but Jazz was there at the very edge of his vision, the lithe silver mech glinting in the diffuse light.

"Look around ya. The humans do it all th' time." Jazz grinned, the blue glow of his visor brightening. "An' even _I _managed t' do that much."

Prowl's sigh was carried on a breath of laughter. Optics dimmed as he fought for composure, he felt more than heard Jazz's laughter in return.

"That's more like it." The silver mech was already out of sight, his voice floating back across the roothtop. "C'mon, Prowler. Best be getting' back. It'll be dawn soon, an' ya know Optimus an' Ratch are goin' t' come lookin'."

The eastern horizon was already tinged with pink. He couldn't stay. Taking one last look around him, Prowl walked slowly back towards the scaffolding, alone on the rooftop once more, but feeling warmer than he had for years.

It was impulse that made him hesitate, stooping to gather a double handful of the dust that crunched beneath his feet. It streamed between his claws, caught by the dawn breeze. He watched with sensors and golden optics as it carried across the city, an intangible cloud of concrete and glass dust and – for just one part in a million – tiny shards of cybertronium.

He no longer grieved for this last legacy of a long-gone battle. The memory of that day was written in the bones of this city and in the minds of its people, but Jazz was right. These humans didn't forget the past or cling to it. Instead they absorbed it, learned from it and moved on, all the stronger for surviving their ordeal.

Prowl climbed from the roof and set his wheels to the rising sun, determined to do the same.

* * *

**The End**


	5. Preparations

Title: **Preparations**

Verse: G1

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst, saboteur-related damage and destruction.

Written for the ProwlxJazz Community's 2011 Anniversary Challenge, Week 1, prompts #2 & #9 – 'Worth dying for'/'Worth living for'

Summary: _Jazz and Prowl have developed their pre-mission routine for a reason._

* * *

The door opens without a sound, closing just as quietly. The four mechs in front of me tense nonetheless. None of them turn to look at the mech now resting his doorwings against the wall, arms folded and optics intent. But they wouldn't be Special Ops if they didn't know he was there, sound or no sound. And they wouldn't be Ops if they couldn't read a simple pattern.

All my careful explanation and warnings… the fact that I'm ordering a five-mech, team mission to take out a single base… they knew this was a dangerous one. I don't think it struck home until now though.

My Ops team know they're in real slag when Prowl decides to gatecrash my briefings.

The mech says nothing. After the joors of arguments, prep work and planning there's nothing more he can add. It's down to me now, and there's nothing in his steady gaze that so much as hints at doubt or uncertainty. He simply watches, an enigma to my team and slagging hard to read, even for me. Silent or not, his presence has changed the atmosphere in this briefing, and I'm glad of it. If my people are going into this, I want it to be with optics open.

I let my own visored gaze sweep the room before bringing the meeting to a close, open in my assessment of the team in front of me.

"Last call, mah mechs. If yer not in, speak now an' there's no harm, no foul. Ah ain't takin' anyone who don't wanna go on this one. Take a step back an' ah'll say no more 'bout it."

Not a one of them moves. It's a long few klicks before Bumblebee tilts his head to one side, body angled so he can watch Prowl's reaction as he voices the question on his mind.

"Is it worth it?"

I smile without humour, and not just because Bee might as well have been watching a rock rather than Prime's stoic lieutenant.

"Gotta make that call fer yerself, Bee, mah mech." I pause, my voice and expression both calm. "But fer me? Yeah. This one's gotta be done, one way or another. Ah'll do what it takes."

There's no more hesitation after that.

"Go prepare," I tell them. "Ten breems. Here. Ready to roll."

My team scoots, and Prowl shifts slightly as they file past him, exchanging a brief nod of acknowledgement with each mech. I wait until Prowler and I are alone in the room before I meet his gaze and let my shoulders slump. He knows as well as I do what I just told young Bee, and what his mere presence here told them all.

In ten breems, I'll be leading my mechs from this base and into the fires of the Pit… because this one's worth dying for.

* * *

Prowl and I start in the labs and storerooms, chatting quietly about nothing in particular, stopping at each door just long enough to take a good look inside.

Beachcomber gives us a placid smile, offering to show us his latest samples and accepting without offence when I decline. Perceptor doesn't even notice we're there. Wheeljack is a little less sanguine. His servos are full of something volatile and I wave him off with a deliberately exaggerated expression of fear. He offers a wan smile in response. His vocal indicators flash a worried pink despite the smile, and he shuffles his burden, freeing one hand to wave vaguely in return.

Both Prowl and I are well aware that the repair bay is empty, but Ratchet tells us so anyway when we look in. His addendum of 'and you'd slagging well better make sure it stays that way' is directed firmly at me, and his familiar scowl can't hide the glimmer deep in his optics.

Ironhide just grunts when the two of us cross through the command deck. He leans back in the monitor chair, attention more on us than on the screens. It's got to be said: old 'Hide is just plain lousy at hiding his emotions. Right now he's pretty much vibrating with worry and it steps up a notch when he sees the two of us together. His optics threaten me even as they wish me luck. He doesn't try to keep us there though. He knows I've got a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time.

The first time Prowl dragged me on an impromptu pre-mission inspection tour of the base, I thought the mech had a screw – Pit, a whole circuit-board! - loose. I spent the whole time rushing, needling poor Prowler, trying to get into his processor, even as I tried to keep the mission clear in mine. There's no need for that anymore. Even Ironhide knows that this is routine now, though I'm guessing he puts the habit down to Ops superstition rather than anything more rational. Prowl and I know better, even if we leave our reasons unspoken. We know what we're doing here, and words only get in the way.

"Hi, Prowl! Hi, Jazz!"

Speaking of words…

"What are you doing here? I thought you were off-duty? I'm kind of glad to find you. I'm going out on patrol now, but I'll be back in a few joors and I was wondering if you wanted to come over, I've got some of the twins' high-gr… Ah, you didn't hear that, did you, Prowl? I mean I've got some high-grade I, ah… found… somewhere, and you're welcome to join me?"

"Not for me, Blue." My visor is bright with amusement. "Gonna be off-base mah-self."

I glance back at Prowler, seeing the laughter I cherish dancing in his deep blue optics, even as his face-plates remain impassive. Young Blue doesn't let the grim expression put him off. Ironhide might be eyeing Prowl warily, but Bluestreak knows our second in command isn't above the occasional clandestine cube, even if he'd rather not know its origin… officially, at least. Even so, Prowler gives a small shake of his head, clearly not in the mood.

"Okay." Like Beachcomber, our Blue doesn't know how to take offence. His broad smile fills the room as he heads for the door. "See you when you get back."

Ironhide snorts, throwing a nod in my direction before he turns back to his monitor. Still grinning, I glance sideways to take in the ghost of a smile that Prowl won't show anyone but me. Even with the knowledge of my mission hanging over us, there's something uplifting about Bluestreak's utter confidence in my return. I file the memory of his room-brightening smile alongside the much rarer quirk of Prowl's pale lip-plates.

We drift onwards, past our locked offices, exchanging greetings with our Prime before heading into the crew corridors. Most of the rooms are locked – 'bots on monitor duty, on patrol or simply recharging. A few doors are propped wide, an open invitation to anyone who wants to stop by. The mechs inside smile and call out to me as we pass. I let a lazy smile linger on my lips and exchange a few words here, a little banter there, aware of Prowl, wings and posture deliberately relaxed, trying not to look too imposing beside me.

There aren't many mechs in this crew who've been with us as long as Ironhide, Ratchet and Wheeljack. Most of them probably haven't picked up on this routine yet. They see Prowl and me side by side on the battlefield, in our offices, even in the rec room when I can manage to drag Prowler down there. They haven't twigged to the fact that this slow meandering survey is out of the norm for us, or connected it – as Ratchet certainly has – to the chances of me ending up slagged in medbay by the end of the orn.

The twins are an exception. Sunstreaker is alone in their room, cross-legged on the floor and cleaning his weapon with as much attention to its smooth function as to its aesthetics. He glances up through the open door, and I see his optics dim as he takes in me and Prowler, side by side and talking quietly. He expels a gruff vent, turning a forbidding scowl on us that's belied by the fact that his door is open and welcoming. Master of the mixed message, our sunshine.

"Going somewhere interesting?" is all he says, not even looking me in the face-plates.

"If ah told you, ah'd hafta kill you." My quiet chuckle is genuine, the death threat only marginally so.

Sunny nods and puts down his rifle, optics coming up to meet my visor. "Need an extra servo… or fist, for that matter?"

My laughter fades. I meet his gaze without flinching and with only the slightest hint of apology. "Not this time, Sunny."

It's a few moments before Sunny looks away, picking up his rifle and cleaning cloth with no visible hint of emotion. "Sides is planning a party for next orn." His optics dart to Prowl for a moment, daring him to make something of it, before dropping back to the task at hand. Prowler's doorwing twitches, but he stills his vocalisor, letting Sunny go on. "You'd better not be late."

The gruff words are an order, a plea and a prayer all wrapped up in one. I accept them in the spirit they're meant.

"Ah'll do mah best, Sunstreaker. Ah'll do mah best."

* * *

It had started the orn as a Decepticon base.

But then, I'd started the orn as a fully functioning mech – peak of fitness according to Ratch.

As labels went, neither was going to win prizes for accuracy. Not now.

I grit my denta and reach out, finger servos scrabbling for a hold on a jagged shard of wall-plating, ignoring the way it cuts into my palm as I pull myself forward across the debris field. A flat panel shifts beneath me, its surface warped and bubbled in the heat.

_A tall figure beside me. Doorwings held high. Tremors barely visible as their owner tries to project a calm he doesn't feel._

Another hand-hold, another cry of pain as I drag my torso across the wreckage. There's a pool of fluid burning in my path – fuel, lubricant, I don't care. Going around isn't an option. I get my hands under me, trying to push myself up and over it, only to scream in torment as my arms give way and my chestplates splash down into the flames.

_Ironhide's concerned look threatening all kinds of pain if I end up worrying him like I have in the past._

I haul myself through the fire, useless legs trailing behind me. Burning oil drips from my Ops-refined plating. A flame licks at the transformation seam in my left calf even after I'm clear. I take a moment to bat at it, not feeling the fire but knowing I can't let it take hold. My legs might be shot to the Pit, crushed by a falling console and lacerated by the metal shards littering the ground, but I'm still kind of hopeful that Ratch'll put them back together. No point making his job any harder.

_Ratchet, looking around his empty repair bay. Looking up at me with the grim certainty it won't stay that way._

I tear my palm a little wider as I crawl across the jagged shards of a viewscreen. My arms aren't going to hold out much longer. They're leaking energon from a thousand small cuts, not just the three long slices left by flying debris in the initial explosion. If I'd not flung them across my head and neck, it wouldn't just be my arms showing those jagged tears. Grim humour shakes a choking laugh out of my frame as my processor drifts back a mere handful of orns, to Prowler scowling at me and threatening to mount my helm on his office wall. Much as I'd been bugging him at the time, I'm pretty sure he was joking. Getting decapitated in the ruins of a Decepticon base would be a Pit of a way to ruin his day. And mine.

_Humour barely visible on pale faceplates. A small smile that took me vorns to recognise and longer still to claim for my own. Steady blue optics watching my every move, drinking in the sight of me._

Those leaking arms of mine are going numb, and not because I've blocked the sensors as I did in my legs. I force them to move regardless, flinging out a white forearm, watching in vague bemusement as scratched black finger-servos scrabble for a grip. Things are drifting a bit now, but I pull myself onwards one mechanometer at a time. I reckon I must be getting towards the rendezvous point, and I'm still hopeful Bee and Raj made it out before the big bang, even if Mac and 'Shifter weren't so lucky. Maybe I'm fooling myself. Or maybe I'm just praying for it to be true.

"_You'd better not be late." Order. Plea. Prayer. Sunstreaker's words, echoed in his brother's expression as Sides caught up with us in the rec room._

"Doin' mah best," I mutter, vocalisor choked with static. Another deep vent, another few mechanometers. I keep going, not letting the pain stop me and not worrying, for once, about Decepticons finding me in these ruins. No one closer to the blast than me made it out of there. And that was everyone. I'm honestly not sure I'm going to make it out either. Maybe I'm already dead, and just haven't figured it out yet. It would be so easy to stop and accept my own sacrifice.

_Wheeljack's vocal indicators, flashing pink in front of my fading vision. He warned me the reaction rate was unpredictable. Prowl knew too. My choice. Won't stop them taking the blame._

Don't blame Shockwave for thinking the auto defences on this place made patrols unnecessary. Three slagging vorns this place has kept the chasm bridge pinned down. Always before it's been a thorn in our side. With the war going against us, each avenue of retreat choked off in turn, it's become more than that: a knife to our back-plates. If we're going to get our people out, regroup and retaliate before our base becomes our trap and our tomb, then this place had to be wiped off the map.

_Four mechs, standing between me and Prowl. Knowledge in each pair of optics. This mission… this cause… was one worth dying for._

I believe that. There'd be no shame deactivating here. No regret that I took the risk. It would be easy to give in to the steady energon drain from a dozen wounds… so easy.

_Deep blue optics dimmed with half-concealed concern. White servos brushing mine as they hand me a last cube before I set out._

I crawl onwards.

_Beachcomber's lazy grin._

Pain lancing through me.

_Bluestreak's broad smile._

Not giving up.

_Prowl's silence, speaking volumes to me… only to me._

"Jazz!"

Bee's voice rises over the crackle of flame.

Hands ghost over my plating, gentle but still trailing agony in their wake. I give myself over to the pain, sure now that the fires – both internal and external – will be gone when the darkness fades. Confident that I'll wake with Ratchet swearing at me… with Ironhide leaning, arms folded and scowl firmly fixed on his face, against the wall… with Wheeljack fussing over my newly-repaired legs struts… with Sunny and Sides already conspiring to ease the tedium of my repairs with a prank or two. With Prowl watching over me, words unnecessary between us.

There are two words I'll give him, necessary or not: Thank you.

Every time Prime speaks, every time I face a Decepticon in battle, or pick through the debris of shattered lives, I know I have a cause worth dying for.

It's Prowl who gives me something more, who's there every time, walking beside me, making me take the time, not letting me go until he's sure the knowledge is fixed in me, processor and spark.

As I sink into the haze of memories, lost amidst images of my friends and the play of emotions through my spark, I know I have something far harder to find – something that'll drag my battered frame through a thousand explosions and out of the Pit itself.

I have something worth living for.

* * *

**The End**


	6. Inspiration

_And now to lighten the mood a little. I think this is the last P/J ficlet I already have polished and up on LiveJournal, so posting will become more erratic from here on in. How much so depends entirely on how uncooperative my current works in progress are feeling!_

_Thanks for reading - reviews, no matter how brief or critical, are always very welcome!_

* * *

**Title: **Inspiration

**Verse: **G1

**Rating: **PG

**Warnings: **slight crack, somewhat obscure comic book references

**Characters: **Jazz, Prowl, Sunny, Sides, Thundercracker, Soundwave

Originally written for the prowlxjazz 2011 anniversary challenge, week 3, prompt #5 – 'Cartoon Heroes'

**Summary: **_When Jazz encourages his mate to give human cartoons a second chance, he has cause to regret that decision._

**Disclaimer:** The Transformers universe and characters belong to Hasbro and are used here without permission. Well-known phrases referenced here originated variously with DC, Marvel and 2000AD comics.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Jazz: it's simply not logical." Prowl's optics were bright and there was a snap in his tone. His doorwings flared out behind him, every inch of his frame vibrating with frustrated irritation. "Even if you accept the highly implausible premises, their logical consequences…"

"It's not _about_ logic." Jazz sauntered along the corridor, pausing to grin at his mate when he realised Prowl had stopped. Smile still firmly in place, he eyed Prowl's folded arms and scowling face, as confused by the strength of the tactician's reaction as he was amused by the cause of it. "It's about makin' the best of yer opportunities. Doin' what yer able t'do. Bein' the best ya can be." He waved one hand in an expansive gesture, forcing Bumblebee to duck as the mini-bot passed them. "About truth, justice an' the American way."

Prowl's doorwings flicked disdainfully, and Jazz didn't even try to suppress the snigger that rose in his vocalisor. He couldn't really blame Bee for throwing a second look over his shoulder, or for speeding up a little to get clear. Catching Prowl and Jazz in an argument was rare, outside of the strategy sessions both approached with equal gravity. While they had their disagreements, they were usually private affairs, kept quiet to avoid disrupting the Ark crew. For Prowl to show such strong emotion in a public corridor was unusual to say the least, and Jazz knew his amusement must look badly out of place.

Not that he would usually laugh at his mate's frustration. It was just that, of all the topics that could have got Prowl so badly riled…

"Jazz, you can't possibly believe abstract concepts capable of violating fundamental physical laws! I cannot see any possible benefit to encouraging human children to believe otherwise and nor do I understand why allowing Spike – or some of our younger Autobots! – to watch them is not only acceptable, but looked on with indulgent amusement."

"It's just a bit of fun, Prowler."

"Fun? _Fun?_ Violence is commonplace and considered unremarkable. The strategies of the 'heroes' are inevitably flawed, and the scenarios presented in these… _fantasies_ are idealistic at best. At worst they suggest activities that present significant danger. They don't just fail to prepare the younglings for the realities of this world, they actually encourage…"

And that was it. The real fear underlying this outburst, and the anger Jazz felt simmering in his mate.

Jazz's amusement drained away, replaced by a gnawing sadness. Prowl sensed the change in him, and deflated, the bubble of his rage burst by Jazz's reaction to it. The tactician panted, his vents uneven and strained after his rant. He evened them out with a visible effort, not breaking contact between his regret-filled optics and Jazz's dimmed visor.

Silence returned to the corridor, the two mechs aching with knowledge. Neither was conscious of moving, but they found themselves in one another's arms nonetheless, each holding the other tight.

This – the feel of another in their arms and the bond throbbing between them – _this_ was real. Abstracts like 'truth', 'mercy', 'justice'… 'peace'…. Even the few with some foothold in reality were only good for getting people killed.

Jazz and Prowl had stopped believing in the triumph of justice long before. They fought for freedom, but not to make some kind of moral point or to indulge some righteous fantasy. When the Autobots' second and third in command confronted the 'bad guys' they didn't expect a last minute miracle, or for the Universe to hand them a happy ending. They couldn't walk through a battle without acquiring a scratch, or repair damage with a wave of their hands. It was enough for them simply to survive.

As much fun as Spike's cartoon super-heroes could be, their idealised optimism was light years away from Jazz and Prowl's experience. It hurt to realise that such dreams still had power, to remember the innocence they'd once shared.

"They're so young," Prowl whispered. "They have so much to learn."

"They'll do that without us draggin' them down." Jazz let a sigh escape his vents, slipping an arm around his mate's waist and guiding them on towards their quarters. "Let them have their fun while they can." He glanced sideways at Prowl. "An' maybe we should be tryin' t' learn from them too. Givin' the cartoons another go, an' tryin' t' remember what this is all meant t' be about. Ya never know, Prowler, even ya might pick up an idea or two."

Prowl scoffed, his weak smile showing more clearly than words how unlikely he found that prospect. Jazz rewarded the attempted smile with one of his own, leaning into Prowl's side as they slowed in front of their door. He reached up to run a finger down one of Prowl's doorwings, determined to distract his lover from a topic that was depressing them both.

For once, Prowl was more than willing to be distracted.

* * *

"I've created a monster."

Jazz deadpanned the words. He leaned back against a handy wall with his arms folded over his chest-plate and a wry expression on his face. A flick of one doorwing was the only indication he had that his mate had even heard him. The tactician was entirely focussed on the human librarian in front of him, crouching to thank the woman for a stack of graphic novels tall enough she could barely lift it into the palm of his hand.

It wasn't that there was any particular reason Prowl _shouldn't_ develop an interest in human cartoons. Jazz would be the first to admit that some of them were rather fun, and he had, after all, spent most of the last year prompting Prowl to widen his exploration of human culture. And if Prowl was unnerving half the Ark with his quiet attendance of the afternoon cartoon hour… not to mention challenging the human library system to meet his sudden demand for both local and imported comics as he went back to the source material… well, only Primus knew better than Jazz how obsessive his mate could be when he set his processor to a task.

It was just that the saboteur was starting to worry that he'd been wrong to encourage Prowl to give this a second chance. He couldn't help fearing that the answers he'd suggested the tactician look for simply weren't there to be found.

He eyed the stack of comic compilations Prowl was tucking into his subspace with a sour expression, and had to suppress a groan when his mate launched into a discussion of when his next set of requests were likely to arrive.

"Don'tcha think we ought to be gettin' on? Twins're getting tetchy."

This time Prowl took the time to look over his shoulder, faceplates impassive as he surveyed the Lamborghinis sulking on the road behind them. The pair made for a sorry sight. Their wheel-wells were scuffed from human parking boots, their vibrant colours dulled by dirt thrown up in the race that got them impounded in the first place.

They'd been pouting since the two senior officers arrived to escort them home and, if the enforcement officers were to be believed, for half the night before. 'Tetchy' didn't really begin to cover it. Of course, Jazz mused, Prowl hadn't been in the best of moods since the early morning call interrupted his recharge either. Jazz knew his mate well enough to suspect that forcing Sunstreaker to endure the filth – and Sideswipe to endure his twin's inevitable griping – for a little longer was very much a deliberate part of the twins' punishment.

The tactician raised a brow-ridge, doorwings spreading in an unimpressed dismissal.

"Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were well aware that they were breaking the law when they decided to speed. Given such lack of consideration for the safety and comfort of others, they are hardly in a position to begrudge a few minutes delay in returning to the Ark."

Sunstreaker's engine growled, not quite loudly enough for Prowl to take him to task, but with enough volume to earn a look that had both twins sinking lower on their tires. Prowl held them with a steady gaze for several klicks before glancing back at Jazz.

"Nevertheless…" Prowl vented a sigh, and folded down into his police car alt-mode with a final word of thanks for the woman Jazz had mentally labelled as his supplier.

The Porsche followed suit, his farewell to the librarian rather more abrupt. He shrugged his plating into place with less than his accustomed grace, revving his engine as he tried to shed his sense of chagrin and growing guilt. It was too much to hope Prowl wouldn't notice.

'_It would seem the twins are not the only mechs getting impatient.'_ Prowl's observation was offered with a tentative air, a private com-line opening between the two mechs as Jazz led them out into the early morning traffic.

Jazz hesitated. He sped up, Prowl sticking to his tail, but pulling out a gap in front of the dawdling twins and letting a couple of human vehicles slip between them. There was small chance of Prowl dropping the enquiry when he was in this kind of mood. That didn't mean the saboteur wanted Sunny and Sides to see him squirming and hear every hiccup in his engine note as he answered his mate's implied question. _'Just wonderin' if maybe ah've been leadin' ya astray.'_

'_It wouldn't be the first time.'_ Prowl's amused assurance fell flat and the Datsun's engine revved, picking up on his mate's anxiety. _'Jazz, I really don't know… Oh.'_ The tactician's voice became softer as realisation dawned. _'You fear my current interest is driven by an emotional need that will not be met.'_

'_Isn't it?' _

'_On the contrary, I'm finding the study of human psychology rather fascinating, and of significant utility in our dealings with the authorities here. Not to mention that these 'superhero adventures' have suggested several promising new strategies.'_

Jazz wasn't sure whether to be more bemused by the idea of using comic book strategies against the Decepticons, or insights drawn from children's cartoons on human politicians. Neither, though, mattered as much to him as Prowl's relaxed tone. He took a moment to scan his mate, searching for any sign that Prowl might be lying. The Datsun appeared calm, his engine note even and his speed constant. There was no hint of anxiety or the desolation Jazz had heard in the mech's voice just a few weeks before.

_'You were perfectly correct in your assertion that these cartoon heroes are encouraged to utilise every skill to maximum effect. That is an admirable aim and I should not have allowed my cynicism to blind me to it. The dedication and commitment of these characters to their causes is fascinating… and somewhat familiar.'_ Prowl paused, a quiet regret entering his tone. _'I fear the realities of our war are still beyond these young humans, but I cannot and will not resent them for that.'_

_'Yer okay with it?'_

_'I'm more than simply 'okay'. I find myself increasingly protective of the innocent optimism that we ourselves have lost. And I am looking forward to finding the appropriate opportunity to make use of what I've learnt.'_

_'Now that ah gotta see!'_

Jazz allowed a shiver of relief to pass through his frame and Prowl closed the space between them until their bumpers were near touching, reassuring his lover more important in that moment than human concepts of safe gaps and stopping distances. Jazz nudged back, keeping the impulse gentle even at the leisurely speeds they were restricted to until they escaped the city limits.

"Breakin' the rules o' the road, Prowler?" He managed to make his voice cheerful despite the niggling concern that Prowl was fooling himself. "Good thing the twins ain't seeing this."

With a mental shrug he forced himself to set his fears aside, shifting his attention back to his medium-range sensors and scanning for Sunny and Sides – now a block and a half behind and mired in the rapidly swelling traffic. Picking a single human vehicle out of a city rush hour would have been a nightmare even for Jazz's sensitive systems, or perhaps particularly for Jazz, given the number of conflicting signals. Fortunately Cybertronian life-signs…

"Decepticons!" Jazz shouted the warning both aloud and over his com for the twins to hear.

He resisted the urge to stand on his brakes – not because he thought Prowl would have trouble stopping behind him, but for fear of human drivers back-ending the pair of them. Instead he slowed gradually, trying to drag out a large enough gap from the vehicle in front to transform, while dividing his attention between his sensors and Prowl's orders for Sunny and Sides to hang back.

That wasn't an option for Prowl and Jazz. Already the flow of traffic was driving them around the corner into a wide plaza, and into full view of the Decepticon signals half way along its near side.

Humans ran past Jazz and Prowl as they braked to a halt, pedestrians joined by drivers abandoning their cars and fleeing the indifferent intruders. The plaza's approaches had become parking lots, vehicles scattered across the roads and sidewalks as their owners tried to avoid being pushed further into an open space that could devolve into a battle ground at any moment.

Not that these Decepticons appeared to care what the squishy organics chose to do, or even to be scanning the roads. That made sense, Jazz realised. With the Ark a full hour's drive away and the city's roads snarled in peak-use traffic, there'd be little risk of Autobot interference in a quick smash-and-grab raid. It was pure chance that put two Autobot officers on the ground, with back-up behind them and a few klicks to observe and assess the situation without being noticed. Jazz and Prowl didn't need discussion to know they needed to make the most of it.

Thundercracker leant against a half-tumbled wall, kicking the unstable remains idly with one heel thruster. A loose brick fell from the rough opening and clattered from Soundwave's armour. The telepath's expression didn't change, but Thundercracker held up his hands nonetheless, backing off a step and away from the wall before Soundwave turned away. Rumble and Frenzy stood nearby, apparently indifferent to the Seeker's apology and busy arguing about which of them could have knocked a hole through the wall more quickly. The fifth 'con on Jazz's sensors wasn't in sight, but from the power signature, it couldn't be anyone but Ravage. From the way the others were hanging around, Jazz guessed the panther cassette had been sent ahead into the telephone exchange building. After all, he was the logical choice to scout out a path heavier mechs could take without finding themselves in the basement amidst a pile of shattered floor joists.

'_Ravage's inside.'_ There was no sign of Jazz's usual humour in his voice as he spoke across the heavily encrypted channel Prowl had opened to update the Ark and the nearby twins. Using their radios this close to Soundwave was risky, but the Decepticons had yet to notice them and a speaking vehicle would be a dead giveaway. _'No sign of th' other cassettes. Looks like Soundwave's tryin' to tap the human comms. Ah think this is an intel raid, not anythin' large scale.'_

'_Large enough to endanger innocents.'_

The tense note in Prowl's voice dragged Jazz's attention back to their wider surroundings. He swore, a sinking sensation in his spark. The road was clearing now, no more vehicles making it past the approaches to the plaza, and the pedestrians had largely scattered to the shelter of nearby buildings.

It was typical of their luck since crashing on this planet that one of those just had to be an elementary school.

'_We should let them go.'_ Jazz didn't hesitate. Even without Prowl's words about preserving innocence still echoing in his processor, he'd have decided the same. Soundwave and Thundercracker might be two of the more thoughtful, and least indiscriminately violent, Decepticons, but that wouldn't stay their fire if attacked, and the cassettes were unpredictable to say the least. The potential for collateral damage... _'Whatever info they're after, it's not worth draggin' sparklin's into this.'_

'_Agreed…'_ Prowl's voice trailed off, and the Datsun's engine revved in sudden warning. _'Too late.'_

Soundwave's head snapped in their direction, the cassette twins dropping their argument and drawing their weapons as scarlet optics picked the two Autobots out of the snarled traffic. Jazz and Prowl transformed in unison, Prowl reaching into subspace even as Thundercracker jerked upright and brought his arm-mounted cannon to bear. Jazz dropped into a crouch, drawing his blaster and trying to tune out the screams of fleeing humans. He wracked his processor, searching for a plan, knowing that this situation could go south far faster than even he and Prowl could deal with.

A flash of light and heat surprised him, and he frowned as he realised Prowl had opted to use his blaster rather than the more familiar acid rifle. Soundwave cocked his head and Thundercracker hesitated. It was oddly comforting that the Decepticons were just as confused – and not least because the famously sharp-shooting tactician had just fired into a tall office building on the north side of the plaza, a full hundred yards from the telephone exchange on the east.

For a moment, Autobots and Decepticons alike froze, listening to the tinkle of falling glass and the wail of fire alarms that protested the seemingly-wanton abuse.

'_Jazz. The building has a steel frame. Your hand- and pede-magnets will adhere to it without difficulty._' Prowl's clipped tones rattled over the encrypted coms almost faster than Jazz could follow. _'Occupants scan below the fifth floor and evacuating. Go.'_

Jazz moved on the word, back-flipping across the plaza – partly to avoid crushing abandoned vehicles, but mostly to draw Thundercracker's fire. He succeeded. Laser fire splashed behind and around him as he reached the office block, activating his magnetic fields and scaling the vertical wall in a spider-like semi-crawl.

'_Sideswipe, activate your jet-pack. Ascend vertically and enter the plaza over the third building on the west side. Sunstreaker, approach to within two hundred metres of the north-west corner and wait.'_

Dodging Decepticon fire, snapping the occasional shot back down to make sure the mechs didn't get bored, all the while navigating the web-like network of girders beneath the building's skin, took a fair amount of concentration. Even so, Jazz spared a moment to appreciate the smooth ark Sideswipe traced out as the scarlet twin rose, glinting and with booster rockets roaring, into the sunlight. The front-liner cut his jet-pack at the apex of his flight, dropping into the plaza with weapon already drawn and landing in a crouch with a dangerously exhilarated grin on his face.

The hail of laser fire directed towards Jazz and Prowl subsided for a moment. Even Jazz would think twice before confronting a Sideswipe that hyped, and that was without the added distraction of his showy entrance. Grinning a little himself, Jazz snapped off another shot, making the most of his high ground and grazing Soundwave's shoulder buttons. Judging by the cries of outrage from the cassette twins, that was more than enough to drag attention back upwards and towards himself. Sideswipe joined in, placing his shots carefully, and just as eager to draw Decepticon fire away from the school and into the human-free areas Prowl had identified.

'_Prowl…'_

'_Sunstreaker, wait!'_

'_But Prowl…!'_

Soundwave hesitated, obviously hearing the command Prowl transmitted in the clear, and as confused by it as Sunstreaker was. Jazz kept the grin on his face. Even so, he was starting to wonder about Prowl's strategy here himself. The tactician had taken advantage of the double distractions offered by Jazz and Sideswipe to herd a few stray humans into more secure cover and to relocate himself to the shelter of an abandoned bus. Now he fired a pinpoint shot through the gaping hole in the telephone exchange, and a yelp from Ravage preceded the panther's sudden retreat to his master's side. The shot was enough to alert the Decepticons that Prowl now had them covered. Thundercracker tensed, arm cannon rising towards the sniper's post and then swinging back to Jazz when the saboteur clipped him with a snapped-off shot.

'_Sunstreaker, full speed to the north-west corner. Stop. Transform. Do not draw your weapon.'_

Again in the clear. And to leave Sunny in the open like that…. It made no sense! Jazz fired another shot, his processor working at top speed as he tried to figure out what was going through his mate's helm. There was no logic to that order – or at least none Jazz could see.

Soundwave knew it too. His usually monotone voice held a distinctly uneasy edge.

"Ravage. Rumble. Frenzy. Return."

The cassette player reached for his damaged shoulder as he spoke, pressing down hard on a switch that must pain him, in order to gather his creations to safety. Frenzy was still completing his transformation when Sunstreaker accelerated into the plaza, transforming in a squealing slide that sent a spray of sparks across the concrete pavement. The yellow twin was visibly furious, angry with his orders and with the long delay before he could join the battle. His optics glowed bright, their indigo-blue tinted with a deep scarlet.

For a moment, Jazz thought the frontliner would ignore Prowl completely and dive at the enemy. But then Sunstreaker stopped, fully exposed and vibrating with range, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as if they itched to close on Decepticon plating.

No one moved. It was several long seconds before Thundercracker slowly raised his cannon, aiming at the twin with an expression of deep mistrust.

"I wouldn't." Prowl's clear voice rang across the plaza, its calm tone shocking after the thunder of weapons fire. Prowl stepped out of cover, rifle held ready in his hands but optics fixed on the two Decepticons in front of him. "Don't make him angry."

The voice dropped to a whisper, and Jazz would swear that every mech in the plaza – Autobot and Decepticon alike – leaned forward to listen as Prowl flung out a dramatic hand and went on as if confiding a great secret.

"You wouldn't like him when he's angry."

Dead silence.

Prowl stood rock still, his raised arm extended like a herald's, directing every optic towards a golden twin still too busy glaring around him to share the general sense of bewilderment.

On the west side of the plaza, Sideswipe's jet-pack whined in readiness.

On the east, tears and cries of excitement rose from the school in equal measure.

And high above the north-side sidewalk, Jazz found himself clinging to the building as laughter bubbled up from his spark, escaping him in ever-louder and more hysterical waves.

Thundercracker looked from the dramatically posed Autobot tactician to the giggling saboteur. His eyes swept across a fuming twin and a confused one, both quite ready to move on the command of their transparently glitched officers. There was a question in his eyes as he turned to his companion. Soundwave gazed back for a long moment before his optics dimmed, the telepath's helm visibly steaming as his logic centre shut down.

Thundercracker caught his superior officer before the cassette player could fall, growling out a profanity as he took to the air and fled, desperate to escape this insanity.

* * *

"Uh… Prowl? Jazz?"

The wariness in Sideswipe's voice renewed Jazz's fading laughter. The exasperated expression on Prowl's face when his mate glanced up in his direction only doubled it. He started to climb down the steel frame, the intensity of his giggles flooding his visor with static. He made it halfway down the building before he lost his grip and tumbled to the ground, rolling onto his back and still laughing hard enough to hurt.

Prowl was at his side in a moment, scanning him closely before standing over him with arms folded across his bumper. "Really, Jazz. It's not that…"

"'_You wouldn't like him when he's angry'?_" Jazz quoted between wheezes from his vocalisor, looking up at his mate.

The smile playing on Prowl's faceplates just seemed to confuse the twins more. The tactician leaned down, offering Jazz a hand to pull him to his feet. "There are times when a confrontation is necessary and logic a basic survival tool. And other times…"

"Other times?" Sunstreaker growled, irritation still winning out over his confusion.

"My recent studies have suggested that while a logical strategy has great advantages, there are times when bluster, display and simply confusing one's arch-enemy can be surprisingly effective tools."

The twins simply stared. Jazz sniggered, leaning into his mate, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Prowl threw an arm around him, looking down with a fond expression, before glancing around at the humans only now peering out from cover. Sirens sounded on the air, both the high-pitched wail of police cars and the deeper howl of fire engines, and Jazz's sensitive audio receptors picked out the distant roar of speeding Autobots on the morning breeze.

Prowl sighed, smile fading.

"Sideswipe, please check at the school. Reassure them as best you can, and ensure none of the children are unduly distressed or in need of medical attention. Sunstreaker, begin a survey of the structural damage. Contact Hoist or Grapple if you're uncertain as to its severity."

"But…"

Prowl's optics flashed. Jazz could still see the relief and good humour there, but it was deeply banked, hidden behind his mate's usual neutral façade. The tactician's tone gave the twins no room for hesitation. "Now, if you please."

Jazz couldn't help chuckling aloud as the twins scooted away. He eased back from Prowl, tapping his visor in a wry salute. "I'll go 'pologise t' the fire folks, if ya take the p'lice."

Prowl vented a sigh. "That would be very welcome."

Jazz waited until the tactician had turned away before raising his voice in a call that stopped not just Prowl but also Sunny and Sides in their tracks.

"Just one thing, Prowler," he drawled.

"Jazz?"

A broad grin spread across Jazz's face at his mate's wary tone.

"Ah get it, ah really do. Sides here can leap tall buildin's in a single bound. Me? Ah guess ah can do pretty much whatever a spider can. And Sunny… well…" He suppressed his snigger at the confused glare Sunstreaker shot his way. "So, ah gotta tell ya ah'm dyin' to know, Prowler: what does that make ya?"

"What does that make me? Why, Jazz, I thought you knew."

Prowl's doorwings flared wide and tall as he turned, meeting Jazz's smug smile with one of his own as he gave the only possible answer.

"I am the Law."

* * *

**The End**


	7. Primus Wept

Title: **Primus Wept**

'Verse: 2007 movieverse AU

Rating: T/PG-13

Characters: Jazz, Prowl, ensemble.

Warnings: dark fic, major character death, established Jazz/Prowl

Summary: _There are things that, once heard, cannot be unheard._

Disclaimer: This work of fan fiction is derived from the 2007 movie "Transformers", directed by Michael Bay and based on the Hasbro franchise of the same name. Characters and situations are used without permission, and not for profit.

Author's Note: I seem to be writing fairly dark stuff at present. This is darker than most - be warned. Continuity is post-2007, but AU in that it is not consistent with RotF and DotM. Prowl's appearance is based on the movieverse comics by IDW. Similarly, my Jazz may well have been, in part, influenced by the comic story _Dark Spark_…

Comments always welcome.

* * *

**Primus Wept**

Recalling Jazz from the Well should have brought nothing but joy, and it did...

... for a while.

Jazz should have been his familiar, playful and insightful self, grateful for his return, and it seemed he was...

... just for a while.

* * *

A silver frame curled into its companion, delicate sensory finials resting on scarlet chest panels.

Opinion was still divided on whether Prowl's arrival on Earth had been a good thing for Jazz, or a disaster. The Ops mech had fooled them all, even Prime's concerns assuaged by the solid facade his lieutenant adopted. They'd noticed Jazz was quiet, his mood swings harder and faster since his untimely demise. Nodding in tolerant understanding, they'd thanked Primus there was nothing worse. Then Prowl unfolded from cometary form, took one alarmed look at his bondmate and asked what was wrong. Jazz's mask shattered. The lithe silver form fell to his knees, hugging himself as thin keens escaped him. Prowl had taken his lover in his arms, cradling him against the red-trimmed chest.

He hadn't let go since.

"_Primus!_" Sideswipe exclaimed, and no-one but Prowl noticed Jazz flinch.

Sam Witwicky chuckled, dropped his bucket and watched the swordsmech dance around, fishing ice cubes from his armour. They didn't ignore the couple on the sofa out of malice, just habit. Only so many greetings could be met with Jazz's blank stare, only so many invitations rejected in Prowl's soft voice. The boy scarcely glanced at them as he dropped into a human-scale chair.

"So, Bee's never said. Who is this Primus guy, anyway?"

Sitting nearby, Bumblebee shrugged. "God."

"Y know?" Sideswipe threw out his chest-plates, raising an arm in rhetorical flourish and speaking in a resonant tone. "Go, Optimus Prime. Set my people free!"

"Primus doesn't sound like that." It was barely more than a shaped breath. Bumblebee's helm and Sideswipe's swung around, wide optics fixing on their stricken lieutenant. Bumblebee's door-segments flared. Prowl's black-armoured arms tightened, his expression bleak.

It was unusual, these days, for Jazz to respond even to a direct question. For him to volunteer information, to speak aloud to anyone but his bondmate, brought his fellow Autobots to their pedes.

Then they processed what he'd said.

"Jazz?" Bumblebee, ducking forward in an attempt to catch his friend's visored optics.

"His voice... Oh, Lord Primus, your voice..."

Sideswipe's wrist swords spilled into his servos and then retracted, his plating ruffling. His optics cycled, his expression aghast.

"You... you heard Primus speak in the Well? What did he say? Jazz? What did he say to you?"

The silver mech keened softly. His visor dimmed, his face buried against his bondmate's plating. Prowl's doorwings rose, a warning flash of pure white. He stood, pulling his partner with him.

"Please excuse us." The words were polite, the tone uncompromising. Prowl guided Jazz by the hand, as if leading a child. The saboteur followed passively, visor dim, expression lost and forlorn. The mechs stared after them, Sideswipe's servos reaching out as if to pull them back.

"Jazz! What did he _say_?"

* * *

"Do you believe it?" Ironhide's scowl and folded arms spoke of his own opinion.

Ratchet vented, mirroring Ironhide's posture but setting his faceplates instead in an uneasy look. "The crew believe it." The medic scowled. "Last thing the mech needs - devoted 'disciples' hassling him to speak Primus's words like some kind of prophet."

"But what _does_ Jazz need?" Optimus Prime turned away from the sunset. His bright optics surveyed his two old friends - two of the four he'd trust with his spark - and grieved for those absent. War had robbed them all of so many things, so much of what they were. Was it too much to pray that some of those losses might yet be reclaimed? Pained hope coloured his expression. "Is it possible, Ratchet? Could Jazz have communed with Primus in the Well? Is it losing that state of grace that's done this to him?"

"Your territory, Prime, not mine, remember?" Ratchet threw up his servos in disgust. They dropped, his posture slumping. "Dragged back into this war... who knows? I've told you: he experienced _something_. Something that pushed him too far. I don't like the way he collapsed like that, or the way he was able to mask it before. That kind of disassociation... there's something broken in his processor, Optimus, and I don't think I can fix it."

"He has Prowl," Ironhide rumbled. "Mech has a bondmate to pull him back."

Ratchet's saw-blades rotated. He shook his helm and voiced his true fear for the first time. "Unless Jazz pulls him over the precipice first."

The thought earned him sharp looks. The gears and mechanisms of Prime's face-structure shifted into a frown, one servo coming up to rub his chin.

"We need to know. If Primus has guidance for his lost children, I must hear his words."

"No."

They turned. For vorns, Jazz's vast personality had masked his short stature. Encircled by Prowl's arms, visor dim and gaze cast downwards, he'd never seemed smaller. Then the saboteur looked up and, just for a moment, his friends glimpsed the strong mech they loved and missed.

"No. What I heard... it's not just for a few. Not just Autobots or Decepticons." Jazz paused, his vents stuttering after his longest speech for months. His visor burned too bright, its fire as cold and distant as his voice. "All or nothing, Prime. I tell everyone, or no-one."

"Jazz." Optimus Prime took a step forward, servos extended. Jazz's visor turned away. The mech keened and no one missed Prowl's doorwings flaring in protective threat. Prime's servos fell. "Jazz," he repeated.

Prowl half-turned, sheltering the smaller mech against him. The tactician shook his head, golden optics bright. "Saying this much was hard for him, Optimus. Don't push. Please."

Their Prime could do nothing but let them go.

* * *

It took five years.

That it was arranged even that quickly was widely seen as a miracle… literally, at the hands of Primus's prophet.

Megatron stood to one side of the hillock, Starscream at his shoulder. The Seeker's servos rested on his hips, his glares aimed at Soundwave, Shockwave and the other Decepticons Jazz had specified, as much as the delegation opposite.

The Autobots mirrored them. Ironhide and Ratchet flanked Prime, Sideswipe - now a full lieutenant - just behind. Roadbuster stood a little back, together with Ultra Magnus and a handful of other warriors. Of the command staff of both factions, only Thundercracker and Hot Spot were absent - incapacitated by chance accidents in the days before the meeting, and stricken to miss the long-awaited revelation.

Every optic followed Jazz as he climbed the hillock. No one so much as glanced Prowl's way when he activated the weapons-suppressing field the pair insisted upon. They only shivered, pressing forward to hear the most anticipated words in Cybertronian history.

Jazz stood straighter than he had five years before. He'd regained some of his confidence, though never the smile that once defined him. He extended a servo and Prowl came to him, the two sharing the burning gaze of bondmates, their helms bowed forward to touch.

"Well?" Megatron's foot tapped, his snarl shattering the tender moment.

Jazz leaned into his mate and then pulled away. The tactician nodded, their servos still intertwined. Jazz's vocaliser whined with disuse, straining to project an echo of his once-vibrant tones.

He nodded to Megatron. "Twelve years ago, you sent me to the Well of All Sparks." And Optimus. "A year later, you brought me back."

Jazz's helm bowed, and Prime flinched at the unspoken accusation. The saboteur took a step forward, his clawed servo still linked with Prowl's but his frame no longer in his mate's shadow. He glinted silver in the sunlight, lithe and graceful.

"It's taken me a long time to understand what I heard there. To accept what I must tell you."

"What?" Starscream's harsh voice cut across Jazz's whisper. The Seeker threw up his servos in disgust at the looks he got from mechs of both factions. "Just get on with it, Autobot! What did Primus tell you?"

"Nothing." Jazz raised a sharp servo before the massed protest could escape their vocalisors. Prowl glared, doorwings flaring. Silence returned, every mech straining to hear the words. "I heard Lord Primus's voice. I felt his spark, permeating the Well. I..." His servos sketched abstract shapes in the air. "He spoke no words, but I heard him. And I understood, better than I've ever understood anything..."

There was a moment of stillness before Optimus Prime stepped forward, servos spread in front of him. "Understood what, Jazz?"

"Understood what grief means. How far we have strayed from his path. How broken we have become... how far beyond redemption." Jazz didn't release his mate's servo, or react to the rising noise. "My spark was one with the Well, and the Well was overflowing... filled with Lord Primus's tears."

The saboteur shuddered, visor distant.

"It is a terrible thing to hear your god weep."

The flat, almost emotionless, words fell into silence.

"All I once was drowned in those tears. And then I was pulled back, born again, washed clean." Jazz's visor refocused. Prowl met his gaze, his expression as distant and broken as his bondmate's. Jazz nodded to himself, voice clinical and cold. "That's when I knew what I had to do."

The two shared an intense, almost joyful, look. Jazz smiled, faceplates creasing in the almost-forgotten grin of times past. The Autobot lieutenant straightened, and - for the first time in years - all present were struck by just what this mech was. They looked into a bright blue visor and a pair of golden optics that blazed with deranged fervour.

Megatron cried out, wordlessly. Prime rocked on his pedes, torn between stepping forwards and turning away. The command staff of two armies stood, frozen with realisation and horror, as the finest saboteur in Cybertron's history pulled out a device they all recognised.

Jazz stood on the tips of his pedes, laying a kiss on his bondmate's lips. He ignored the mechs breaking from both groups, trying to flee the detonator's range. They wouldn't get far, Prowl's force-field would see to that.

"Time for a new start," Prowl murmured, still embracing his insane lover.

Jazz's smile softened. He leaned against Prowl's chestplates and relaxed for the first time in years.

"Time for the crying to stop," he whispered, as he pressed the button.

* * *

**The End**


End file.
